


Medusa's Magical Marriages

by theboywiththeskulltattoo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco isn't, F/M, Flamboyant Draco, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry is still rich, M/M, Past Harry/Ginny - Freeform, Some angst, after a book by Susan Elizabeth Philipps, past Draco/OMC, work relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-08 12:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theboywiththeskulltattoo/pseuds/theboywiththeskulltattoo
Summary: Draco is trying to run his grandmother's marriage agency, but to get it off and running he needs a star client.Coincidentally, Quidditch team owner and former Saviour of the Wizarding World Harry Potter wants to marry.While trying to work together, both men must face the reality behind the lives they've tried to build for themselves and confront the masks they show the world.++++++ON HIATUS++++++I'm discouraged a lot by the little interest this has been gathering. The story is dear to me and I WILL finish it - once my mojo comes back





	1. A Notably Bad Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm notoriously shit at tags, summaries and introductions... If this still managed to catch your interest, there's a few things you should know before going on this journey with me.
> 
> Both Harry and Draco will seem wildly OOC to you at first. But please bear with me on this, I promise it makes sense eventually. They are still Harry and Draco, and with each other's help they'll find themselves again down the line. 
> 
> There's some people I would like to thank. 
> 
> First, my alpha reader, number one supporter, cheerleader and dear friend @Quicksilvermaid  
> I really really wouldn't be where I am now without you!
> 
> Thank you also to @keyflight790 and @Saphira for reading over the first chapters for me, for your opinion and comments!
> 
> English is my second language, and this hasn't been thoroughly SPaG checked by anyone but me. If you see something grossly wrong, please don't hesitate to tell me!

If there hadn’t been a drunk bum in his apparition spot, Draco would have been punctual for his appointment. He’d showered, arranged his hair into the sleeky do he’d used to wear when he’d been young and stupid and utterly unfashionable, had dragged his last good dress shirt from the bottomless depths of his wardrobe, had argued with Filch and promised to talk to him later, then rushed out of the cottage. Only to find his Apparition spot occupied by Blergh.

Blergh, named after the only sound he ever utters, is the sole bum in the neighbourhood, usually very friendly and not too stinky, but right now someone has obviously given him enough money to get sloshed, and for all Draco knows he might as well have died right there.

“Why today,” Draco laments, kicking Blergh’s leg with his expensive loafers. “Blergh, please! I have to use this spot for… for… an alien abduction for fuck’s sake!” Blergh doesn’t move a muscle, and Draco curses. He cannot Apparate while Blergh is still in the alley, Statute of Secrecy crap.

“Blergh,” Draco pleads, “I’ll give you money! Here, ten pounds. Oh come on!” No reaction. Okay, maybe a different approach. “Oh Bleeergh,” Draco drawls as seductively as he can while crouching down, shaking Blergh’s dirt-caked shoulder. “Do you want sex? If you could just follow me around the corner, we can talk about it!”

Blergh opens a bloodshot eye, slumping an uncoordinated hand against Draco’s chest and sending him flying backwards onto his arse. Brilliant. Now there’s a disgusting smear of Merlin-knows-what down the front of Draco’s shirt and his trousers have a large tear. Fucking brilliant.

And today of all days, the day that should be the watershed in Draco’s life… Mumbling expletives under his breath he gets up, patting his trousers and shirt down as best as he can. Ten minutes later he lures Blergh away with an opened can of beer.

***

“I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but your appointment was at eleven o’clock.”

The secretary fixes him with a cold, pitiless glare. He knows her from somewhere, Hogwarts probably. Her name tag says ‘Romy’, which he definitely isn’t familiar with. Her icy stare wanders from his hair, sticking up in all directions by now, to his flushed, sweaty face, to his dirt-smeared shirt and ripped trousers. Draco smiles, his usual, charming I-get-everything-I-want-smile.

“I’m only ten minutes late. Please?”

“And those ten minutes was all the time Mr. Potter had appointed for your meeting. I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but you missed your chance.”

No. Fucking no. He needs this, this is his only chance to really make a go of it. And he won’t get a second chance, Potter is only seeing him to do Ginevra a favour. Deflating a little Draco heaves a sigh - and races past the surprised woman’s desk, straight down the corridor. He sees the name on the door - Mr. H.J. Potter - and rips it open, slithers in and stops precisely just in time to not crash into a huge mahogany desk.

There’s not much on the shiny, polished wooden surface, a landline Muggle phone, a Muggle laptop, a newspaper looking suspiciously like the Quibbler, and one of these click-clack-ball office thingies. But right now Draco isn’t really interested in interior design - all his attention is fixed on the man in the chair with his back to Draco, talking on a cellphone.

Strong, brown fingers hold it to a head full of fashionably tousled black hair. Draco takes a deep breath, studying the broad back, clad in an expensive, italian suit. Fitted, Draco notices immediately, and with no small surge of envy. There’s a platin watch wrapped around his wrist, his ring finger is adorned by a Quidditch Championship ring. All of it practically _reeks_ of money.

Now the secretary enters the room too, slightly out of breath. “I’m so sorry, Harry, he just ran past me.”

The cell closes with a snap, the chair swivels around - and Draco looks into the familiar green eyes for the first time in thirteen years. The gaze is sharp and clear and somewhat amused. Gone are the idiot spectacles, gone is the shaggy, unruly hair, gone is Draco’s peace of mind. Potter smiles, showing strong white teeth, but it’s not a nice smile, and Draco flinches back as if boxed in the stomach. Fuck.

“Did you tell Mr. Malfoy that I don’t have time for him anymore? He should’ve been punctual.”

“There was a corpse on my threshold,” Draco lies without hesitation, turning to glare at the secretary before focussing back on Potter. “And I’ll have you know I’m right here, you don’t have to talk about me like that.”

A barely discernible nod from her boss has the woman leave them, not without sending a last withering glance in Draco’s direction. The door falls shut and an eerie quietness settles over the room as Draco turns back to face Harry Potter.

“So,” Potter says and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. Draco watches, his mouth suddenly a little dry. “What can I do for you, Malfoy?” He grins, and Draco’s hormones roar to life.

Salazar, not this. Not now. Yes, Potter is hot. Yes, Draco was aware of that before. Yes, he’s seen enough pictures of him in the last decade to know that he’s not the scrawny, badly-dressed midget he used to be in school. But he had been abso-fucking-lutely sure he’d be professional about it. Potter rubs his square, smartly stubbled chin impatiently, clearly waiting for Draco to say something. Draco blinks like a moron, before finally remembering why he’s here after all.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard about my agency, Potter, it is a--”

“Medusa’s Magical Marriages, I know.” Potter tsks. “You should change that. It’s horrible.”

Ginevra had told him to be as aggressive as possible when pursuing Potter. But something about this specific kind of Potter makes Draco feel not aggressive at all, rather like he wants to throw himself down to his knees and just beg Potter to be his client. He doesn’t do it. It’d look… desperate.

“I know that, thank you, Saint Potter,” Draco sighs instead. “It’s what my Grandma Malfoy named it. It was her agency. I’m going to change it to--”

“Malfoy Meddles Mightily?” Potter grins, apparently enjoying himself. “Or Draco’s Dirty Dicking Den?”

“Haha, very funny, Potter,” Draco snarls while feeling his cheeks flush, slamming the folder he’s brought with him on Potter’s desk. On its cover it says, in bold, curvy letters: _Vows_.

“Hm, yeah, that’s better,” Potter deigns to remark after studying the folder for a moment. Then he starts leafing through it briefly before carelessly throwing it back onto the desk. “I already have a contract with a marriage agency.”

“I know,” Draco says eagerly. He’s done his homework. “With…” That one still stings. “With Parkinson’s Perfect For You.”

“Exactly.” Potter leans forward in his chair and shoves the folder in Draco’s direction. “Seems I won’t need your services today, Malfoy. Or any day. Thank you for coming. Romy will take you out.”

His finger with a very finely manicured nail hovers over a button on his phone, and Draco’s dream starts to dissolve in front of his eyes. “WAIT,” he shouts, nearly crying with relief when Potter really waits. “I can do better than her, I swear! I can find you the perfect wife, the perfect partner, if you just give me a chance! Come on, Potter,” he wails in a last, desperate attempt. “Where’s your fucking Saviour complex when I need it?”

Slowly, Potter’s hand moves back until it is lying on the desk. He’s slumping forward until he’s braced on both arms, the seams in his jacket cracking, his gaze piercing Draco until he feels like a butterfly on a needle. After a very, very long examination, Potter nods.

“Alright. I’ll give you a chance. Tomorrow, eight pm, at the Gilded Swan. Present me with your best offer and we’ll see. She’s got twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes? Isn’t that a little degrading? And you haven’t told me what kind of partner you’re looking for.” Draco produces a quick-quotes-quill and looks at Potter expectantly.

“Malfoy, I don’t have time for this shit. If you’re good at your job you’ll figure it out. And no, twenty minutes is perfect. The right woman will understand. You know why? Because she’s so bloody gentle and mild-mannered that nothing ever bothers her.” He opens his cell, typing something. Without looking up at Draco he waves towards the door. “Now piss off before I change my mind.”

“Yes, thank you, thank you!”

Draco gasps for breath, weak with delight and relief. He’s got a chance! Now the only thing he has to do is not to blow it. On his way out, ignoring the secretary’s sneer, he fishes out his own cell and scrolls through his contacts. And there she is. He calls her from outside of Potter’s office building.

“Astoria,” he says when her familiar hello chimes in his ear. “I need to ask a favour of you.”

***

Satisfied, Draco tucks his phone away in his back pocket - only to pull it out again with a curse. When he looks at the name on the display, the curses get louder and much filthier, to the point that an old Muggle stares at him with a scandalized expression.

The phone keeps ringing, and for a moment Draco contemplates just dropping it into the Thames. He should never have given her that phone, and he certainly should have never shown her how to use it. He swallows, and snatches it open.

“Yes, Mother,” he sighs.

When he’s finally gotten rid of her, Draco flees into the next McDonalds, heading directly for the loo. And nearly gets a heart attack when he looks into the mirror. His shirt is stained with dirt and sweat, hanging limply from his trousers. His hair is indescribable - half of it is still gelled back, the other half has decided to play let’s-defy-gravity on his head. His face - well, better not look too closely at his face.

Draco washes his hands with cold water, splashing some on his still hot cheeks. First Blergh, then Potter, and now his mother. What a day. It’s barely afternoon. And then the dinner tomorrow. Draco draws a shaky breath. This will either make or break him, and the agency.

It had been Medusa Malfoy’s little hobby, this marriage agency for all kinds of wizards and witches. And for a pure-blood witch married to a Malfoy, her clientele hadn’t been… distinguished, to put it mildly.

But she had left it to Draco, a fact he only found out about when he had been forced, due to Father gracing Azkaban with his presence, to take over the correspondence with their family notary. Who had, at one of their horribly strenuous meetings, asked Draco if he ever planned on doing something with the inherited cottage and appendant marriage agency.

That night Mother and him had had a very serious row. Draco had accused her of lying and keeping things from him, Narcissa had raged against his wacky grandma and her ghastly agency full of old people and squibs and whatnot. Of course he couldn't do it, why would he? He’d better be dealing with the family’s issues and trying to find a nice wizard for himself rather than dabbling in such atrocious, plebeian match-making nonsense.

Draco had promptly reminded her of his being of age, had stomped out and sent for his stuff the next day. It had taken months until Narcissa grudgingly accepted his choice of trying to make a go of it, and even longer before Lucius, at that time freshly released to the manor for good conduct, had accepted that yes, his only son and heir was continuing his mother’s little pet marriage agency as a fulltime job.

Now, three months into the game, Narcissa restricts herself to calling twice to three times a week, telling Draco about this guy or that, and did you know that Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s son is single and apparently one of your sort? Well, that and nagging him to give up the agency and come home, seeing as it wasn’t working out anyway. Draco knows she’s only worried about him. But it is his life, and his choices.

And now he has Potter. His star client. And if he can really do it - find the perfect spouse for Harry Potter, the famous Chosen One, the Saviour of the Wizard World, the former Seeker, now owner of the Twickenham Thestrals - that’ll throw Draco in the path of other rich clients for sure.

All he has to do is play his cards right. And forget that Potter is a wet dream come true.

Seriously, couldn’t Draco’s slumbering sex drive have _stayed_ slumbering? Since that fiasco that his last serious relationship had been… he’d rather kept his head low. And now his libido rises like a phoenix from the ashes just because he’s been in the same room as Potter.

Yay.


	2. Harry Potter and his Fucking Life

Dafydd Pritchard enters the club like God’s gift to the City of London. Which he kind of is, to London’s Quidditch scene at least. Harry doesn’t move away from his barstool, just watches Dafydd writing autographs and sending air kisses and little waves in all directions. 

His brown hair is artfully arranged into a complicated do of spikes and longer strands, his earlobes glitter with huge, ghastly jewels - diamonds, Harry suspects with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. A smart pair of sunglasses covers Dafydd’s trademark blue eyes and his skin is tanned to a shiny bronze. What a ponce, Harry thinks not for the first time. 

“Do you know Dafydd?” One of the girls, with a purple pixie cut, pressing against Harry’s right side, inquires breathlessly while watching Dafydd make his way through the crowded space. The club they’re at is notorious amongst London’s Quidditch players, their sponsors - and their sexy prey. 

“Of course he knows him,” a beauty with hip-length black hair tuts. “Harry knows all the important people. Don’t you, Harry?” Her hand sneakily glides over to the inside of his thigh. Harry pretends he doesn’t notice, her hand and his hard-on, just like he always does, now that he’s training for marital fidelity. 

That training is hell. 

“Yes, I know him,” he confirms now, keeping to himself how much better he’d like to know Dafydd. To tell the truth - Harry would give an arm to have him on his team. The Thestrals are a good team, but they are lacking a chaser after Wills had decided to leave them for another team overseas. And Dafydd is the best chaser around at the moment. A true star. 

Harry watches as Dafydd bends his head to listen to the rambles of Donald and Marius Brocklehurst, twin brothers and current owners of the Wasps. He’s not worried too much. Dafydd might be a pompous, rich Welsh kid, but he’s not stupid. He should be able to tell a good team from a - well, a wasp’s nest. 

The atmosphere in the bar is getting heated now, music is blaring from the speakers and people’s bodies are moving to the music. He used to love it, being out and about in the scene, chatting with people, dancing through whole nights, bringing home the most beautiful girls… An endless stream of parties, drugs and mindless sex. 

But since he’s hit thirty last year it somehow doesn’t feel the same anymore. He’s sick of it. He feels glutted with it, jaded and tired. But despite being repulsed by this world, it’s still part of his job to be a part of it. He has to stay on top of everything, has to know what is in and out, what is going on with the younger people. None of his team is more than twenty-five years old. 

“Harry, my man!” 

Harry grins as Dion, one of his team’s beaters, appears at his side. Harry gives the two girls each a little wink and they scamper off. Dion looks after them with mild disappointment before turning his attention back to the most interesting person in the club. 

“Why are you not over there kissing his skinny white ass?” he asks Harry, nodding his chin over at Dafydd. “All the others are.”

“I only kiss asses in my private time,” Harry answers with a grin and Dion rolls his eyes. 

“TMI, thank you very much, boss. Although if that black-haired one wants to take a seat on my face, I’m totally game.” 

“I’ll give her your number,” Harry promises and receives an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “I’m busy.” 

“Too busy for  _ pussies _ ?”

He watches Dion’s face fall, trying to suppress an amused chuckle. The boy is right, in a way. Wherever Harry looks there are tits spilling out of tiny tops, skirts not broader than belts are tightly hugging round, sweet arses - the problem is, all of that isn’t enough. What Harry wants now is the final prize. A cultivated, beautiful, amiable wife. 

She would be the rock in his back, would smooth his rough edges, would be there for him throughout the storms of his career. She would have all the style, all the upbringing Harry never had, enough to pursue the really big fish, the really big spenders. 

The right woman would make him forget all that he’s never had, all that he grew up without. All the bad things would go away. He would have a family. And Harry has no doubt that Pansy Parkinson is just the right woman to find  _ his  _ right woman. She’s fierce, so aggressive it nearly hurts. And she delivers results. 

Which is why he has to get rid of Draco Malfoy and his trifling little agency as quickly as possible. 

***

It’s after one am when Dafydd finally comes to stand next to Harry, neon-coloured cocktail in hand, sunglasses on top of his head. He’s lost his sweater somewhere on the way and is now presenting himself from his best side - half naked. Harry turns to him, managing not to glance down at immaculate pecs and rippling abs. 

“Your turn, Potter. There’s still some space in my arse if you want to join the other guys.” Dafydd raises an eyebrow and smirks. 

“Thank you, but no.” Harry squints at Dafydd’s head. “Fuck, Pritchard, did you get highlights?”

“Yeah. You likey?”

“If you were any prettier I’d ask you out on a date.”

“Get in line then,” Dafydd drawls, turning his head to a tiny bloke with a camera nearly as huge as himself, and grins. “Smile, Potter. We’re making front page here.”

“As if you’d need the additional advertisement.” Harry sips from his tonic water. “You’re getting all the good offers. Now it’s your turn to decide.”

“Okay, Potter, let’s get down to business.” Dafydd leans forward, dropping the sunnyboy facade for a moment. “I like you, I like you a lot actually. Your team is good. I could make something of them. But  _ she _ made me the best offer.” He tips his sunglasses down over his eyes and grins. “Think about it, Potter. Make me a better offer. One I can’t resist.”

***

_ She.  _

When he finally stumbles into his bedroom it’s near dawn, and all Harry wants is a really hot shower and his bed. But instead he walks over to his dresser, opening the top drawer, taking out a faded invitation card. He doesn’t know why he’s still keeping it. Maybe to remind himself of the pain, of the realization just how stupid he’s been.  
  


 

_ Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Weasley  _

_ invite you to the wedding of their daughter  _

_ Ginevra Molly Weasley _

_ with _

_ Harry James Potter _

 

He’d stolen it from the stack Molly had kept after the whole thing had blown up in their faces. It still hurts, the memory of the day before the wedding. The day when Ginny had unexpectedly shown up at Grimmauld Place, her face blotchy, her eyes swollen and red. 

“We can’t do it, Harry,” she’d sobbed, “we just can’t!” 

He’d been shocked to say the least, shocked and hurt and feeling immensely betrayed. The things she’d said to him… 

“You don’t love me, Harry, not like that. You just… you just want to go through with this because it’s what people expect us to do, because you think that’s how it should be! Not because you really want it.”

He’d stormed and raged and pleaded. Whatever was she talking about, of course he loved her, of course he wanted this! And then she’d said the most horrible thing. 

“I feel like you’re just trying to recreate your parents’ lives, Harry. James and Lily’s second chance. We’re not them. We can’t live their life for them. We deserve to be ourselves.”

It had hit him like a lightning strike, the audacity of her accusation - the truth behind it. He’d thrown her out, the wedding had been cancelled, and for a very long time all contact between Harry and the Weasleys had stopped, except for Ron. None of this was ever mentioned between them. 

It had taken a couple months before Harry had calmed down enough to really think about what Ginny had said. He’d been nineteen, she just one year younger. It had been rushed, he had rushed it, without ever really thinking it through. 

But when he did think it through… She’d been right. One hundred percent right. He’d loved her, of course he had. But not in the way she deserved. Not in the way you should love your life partner. The sex had been mediocre at best, but Harry had just shrugged it off. They had been friends, not lovers, he’d realized that later. 

Harry sighs and puts the invitation back into the drawer, sliding it shut a tad too forceful. He’d behaved like an absolute asshole to her after that. And when Ginny had become captain of her own Quidditch team, he’d sabotaged her by poaching her seeker, a young bloke named Garrett who’d been awestruck at being wanted by the famous Harry Potter.  

That had been two days before an important match for Ginny’s team. They’d lost big-time, what with no chance in hell to properly train their substitute seeker. Harry had been sorry later, had regretted his action so much it nearly ripped him in half. He’d apologized, at least a million times. 

And while the Weasleys had slowly become his family again over time, Ginny hadn’t forgiven him for this. Their relationship is strained at best these days. And Harry would do anything to get back in her good books, be her friend again, even give Draco frickin Malfoy an appointment. But he also wants Dafydd Pritchard. 

***

When he’s finally in bed, tired to his very bones, Harry’s mind is still reeling, rendering him unable to even close his eyes. Ginny, Dafydd, Malfoy and the anonymous woman he’ll be meeting tonight are mingling into a dizzy haze in his head. 

Will she be the one? He doubts Malfoy’s ability at finding him the right woman, very much so. And should he really succeed, should the mystery woman turn out to be the perfect wife Harry longs for so much - would he be able to love her?

Love. Harry sneers into the artificial darkness of his bedroom. That magic word, Dumbledore’s favourite weapon, Harry’s allegedly biggest power. It hasn’t done him any good. All the people he’d loved… So many have left him. His parents, Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore… Not one of them he’d been able to keep. 

Harry thinks back, to his earliest memories. To his desperate attempts as a toddler, to love his aunt and uncle, to be loved by them. Well,  _ that _ efforts had been eliminated quickly enough.

Only at Hogwarts had he found people who loved him back. His friends. Ron, Hermione, Neville, Hagrid, the whole bunch of them. That’s the only kind of love that’s real, Harry is sure. He’s never encountered the other kind, the one that’s supposed to knock you off your feet. There’s only lust, and friendship. He dearly hopes he’ll find both in his future wife.

Harry closes his eyes after a last Tempus. In three hours he has to get up and meet Viktor at the stadium. In fifteen hours he has to be presentable for Draco Malfoy and his companion. 

Restlessly, Harry turns to his side, Malfoy’s flushed face before his eyes now. He seems very different to Hogwarts-Malfoy, not as pointy and sharp. His features have definitely become a lot softer, even though his chin could still be considered a murder weapon. And the state of his appearance…

Harry can’t contain an amused grin when he recalls Malfoy’s thoroughly dishevelled state. The old Malfoy would have rather dropped dead than show himself like that in public, least of all in his arch nemesis’ lair. His hair! Harry is sure he hasn’t seen anything more hilarious all week, and he’s seen a six foot four keeper built like a brickhouse dressed in fishnet stockings, so. 

Still pondering what the hell has happened that changed Malfoy from crisp and neat to shaggy and deranged, Harry finally falls asleep. 

***

When Harry enters the bar, Malfoy is already waiting for him - looking a lot neater than yesterday, if a little strange. He’s wearing some kind of soft-looking trousers in a pale grey, his sweater is too big and hanging from one bare, bony shoulder, his hair is held back from his face by a dark blue hair band and in his lap he has a ridiculously oversized, bright purple canvas bag with a crown stitched onto it. 

But this strange sight ceases to matter, for beside him sits a rather beautiful woman. Her long, dark-brown hair frames her heart-shaped face, her eyes are dark and expressive. Not bad, Malfoy, Harry thinks, and smiles. 

“Astoria Greengrass - Harry Potter,” Malfoy introduces them, and gets ready to leave. 

_ Oh no _ , Harry thinks,  _ you stay and make sure we don’t run out of steam _ . He clamps an insistent hand down on Malfoy’s thigh to hinder him from getting up. Malfoy yelps, but stays in place, looking at Harry with wide, astonished eyes. 

“Astoria,” Harry says, turning all his attention on her. “Tell me something about yourself.” 

Twenty minutes later, after Astoria had politely excused herself after the exact amount of time, Harry leans back, lifting his hand to pat Malfoy’s thigh, this time in praise. “Well done, Malfoy. She’s a jackpot.” They have been talking about all kinds of topics, Harry’s team, Astoria’s job at St. Mungo’s, their respective Hogwarts Houses, differences and similarities - Astoria is a Ravenclaw - and the twenty minutes had been over before Harry had noticed. 

“Good job,” he tells Malfoy, who has been suspiciously quiet and well-behaved throughout the date. “I want her number.”

“Nah-uh, Potter.” Malfoy protests. “ _ I’ll  _ call her and give her  _ your  _ number. Wait a second.” He fishes around in his huge canvas bag for at least five minutes before finally unearthing his phone, a  _ sparkling, pink phone _ , putting it to his ear with an expectant look on his face. “Hi, Astoria! I just wanted to ask - yes - he liked you, and - oh - oh Merlin - okay, thank you. Bye!”

His expression has turned all grave, and Harry doesn’t like it one bit. “Well, I feared something like this would happen. Twenty minutes is just - you weren’t able to really shine, right? I’m sorry, Potter,” Malfoy says, his voice laced with pity now. Pity?? Harry swallows. What the fuck-- “She’s not interested,” Malfoy concludes, and snaps his phone shut. 

Not. Interested. Harry can’t believe it. This can’t be true. She’s bloody perfect! Funny and witty and beautiful and interesting, from an old pure-blood family but not some slimy Slytherin - and she’s not interested in him?

“Give me her number,” he demands, “I’ll talk to her myself.”

“Don’t act like a creep, Potter.” Malfoy shakes his head in appal, the git. “The lady said no and you have to accept it. Now,” he smiles, suddenly all businesslike, “let’s set up this contract, shall we?” He takes a deep breath. “I want ten th-th-thousand g-galleons for six months.”

Malfoy swallows, clearly out of his league now. Harry grins. This could be fun. “Normally this would include image polishing and styling tips, but,” here Malfoy lets his gaze glide over Harry quickly, “I think we can skip that bit.”

Indeed. Harry doesn’t possess an ounce of fashion sense. All his outfits are carefully selected, arranged and put in his wardrobe by a very gay, very fastidious fashion adviser Harry had hired when he’d started to feel stupid in jeans and tattered tees. Harry would never dare to wear  _ anything _ not approved by Stefan. 

“Six thousand,” he says, taking the contract form out of Malfoy’s hands. “Double that should you succeed.” He reads through the pages, striking out some things here and there, making little additions. “You’ll be present at all dates, you’ll get rid of them after twenty minutes unless I give you a subtle signal.” 

“Subtle like gripping onto my thigh like a madman?” Malfoy grumbles, but signs the contract, his expression slowly turning to absolute glee. 

And just like that, Harry’s hired his childhood nemesis as his marriage agent.

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we are. I hope some of you out there liked it, despite the boys' strange behaviour. 
> 
> I would be absolutely grateful for your thoughts and comments!


End file.
